


Lies Agreed Upon

by songsmith



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: Backstory, Cultural Differences, Drama, Framing Story, Gen, History Is Written By The Victors, Hundred Year Winter, Moral Ambiguity, Politics, Telmarine Narnia, Villains, Worldbuilding, villains telling their own story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-17
Updated: 2012-06-17
Packaged: 2017-11-07 23:24:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/436581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/songsmith/pseuds/songsmith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four years after the death of Caspian IX, Miraz plots to consolidate his power over those who oppose him as a tyrant. The Narnians takes sides in this struggle, remembering how another tyrant claimed Narnia for a hundred years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lies Agreed Upon

_Woodhush, 2296: Fourth year of the regency of Lord Protector Miraz_  
  
Glozelle hears Lord Miraz long before he reaches the library door. The thick oak panels muffle the sound enough to blur the words, but it's clear some poor fellow is getting the rough edge of the Lord Protector's tongue. Just as he reaches for the handle, the door swings open and a red-faced messenger barrels out, so intent on his feet that he bumps into Glozelle and so intent on escape that he hurries on with barely a muttered apology. Glozelle shakes his head and goes in, confident Miraz is only blowing smoke. The Lord Protector's roars are nothing to fear; his quiet is what's deadly.  
  
As expected, Miraz is pacing the window bay, scowling at a piece of paper. He doesn't look up when Glozelle enters. The soldier makes his bow anyway, murmuring, "My lord."  
  
"He is threatening to bring suit against me," Miraz says, still without looking up. "Suit! As though we were common merchants squabbling over contracts." Glozelle says nothing, only waits for the storm to blow over. "The audacity of the man. He thinks because his sister was queen, he should be king."  
  
"Surely his ambitions do not run so high." Glozelle is proud of how steady his voice is. The thought of Lord Erimon as kings is sharply shocking, like the first splash of icy wash-water on a winter's morning, but surely it is Miraz's anger speaking and not any true reflection of the lord's ambitions. There are too many heirs before him. Glozelle is no student of genealogy, but he can think of at least four off-hand: Caspian, Miraz, and the two Gallarid brothers, descended of Caspian VIII's daughter.  
  
"Do they not? Read that," Miraz orders, thrusting the paper at Glozelle.  
  
He takes it, glad to find a scribe's clear hand gracing the page. Many of the nobles have hands nearly indecipherable even for men of more letters than Glozelle. He wrinkles his brow over the words, laboring through the twisted phrases. “‘…To be guided by us in his royal duties and governance,’” he reads out carefully. "He wishes control of Caspian's education?"  
  
"He wishes control of Caspian," Miraz snaps. "'Guided by us,' indeed. He's already speaking like royalty."  
  
Glozelle blinks and peruses the letter again. It is a royal plural. Which, he supposes, constitutes an insult to Miraz as well as simple arrogance. He shakes his head. Give him the simple insults of a tavern brawl any day over the subtle poisons of the court. He doesn't understand why they make an art of veiled insults when everyone sees through the veils anyway.  
  
Miraz's angry pacing ends with an almost boneless drop into one of the heavy wingchairs. He drums his fingers on the armrest and stares out the window, brooding. "Erimon cannot be allowed control of the boy," he says at length. "We would be paying tribute to Archenland inside the year if he get his hooks into Caspian."  
  
Glozelle drifts closer. "What will you do."  
  
"Defeat this suit of his." He sits silent for a moment, then suddenly kicks the footstool violently. "Damn my brother! If had had left a proper will--!"  
  
"He did not know he would have a child," Glozelle points out. Caspian IX had died with the queen in her first month, uncertain herself of the pregnancy and unwilling to tell anyone given previous disappointments. Eight months later, there was a healthy prince to complicate a succession Caspian had given no thought to.  
  
By law and custom, a man's brother was responsible for his widow and children. In any other house, the baby Caspian would have lived in Miraz's household as a foster-son, and be given a son's share of the estate when he married. Whether he would be made heir to the house portion would depend on his aptitude, and no one would have claimed he'd been cheated of his inheritance had the family seat passed to Miraz's own son. But with a throne involved, the matter was more delicate, especially with better than two hundred fifty years of tradition behind it. The direct line from Caspian the Conqueror had only been side-tracked once, in the very early years, when Caspian III had died in the plague of 1964 and his younger brother, Tirian, had held the throne. But Tirian had no sons, and had passed the throne to his nephew, restoring the line. Miraz would be expected to do the same.  
  
"All the more reason to have his affairs in order,” says Miraz. “But my brother never did give thought to the future. A flaw I do not mean to duplicate.”  
  
“My lord?”  
  
Miraz’s mouth quirks in a secret smile. “You should read more history, general. It is full of useful lessons. Even for warfare.”  
  
"I know little of history, my lord," Glozelle apologizes.  
  
"And I have no time to correct your education," Miraz returns briskly. "Lord Scythley will be here presently." Getting up, he pulls a thick volume from the shelf and thrusts it at Glozelle, so that the general is forced to take it before it drops. Then he crosses to the door, leaning out to order wine brought.  
  
Glozelle examines the tome in his hands. It is old, the binding too lumpy for a title, but well-maintained. None of the leather flakes off on his fingers when he opens the cover to examine the fly-leaf. Thankfully, the scribe who copied it out had a good, clear hand; the words are not difficult: _The Reigne of Queen Jaddis the Swan White, Being an Examination of Divers Correspondance, Annals, and Diarys._ He opens the book at random and reads a few lines, wincing at the dry tone all scholars seem to cultivate, as if it were a crime to show interest in their life's work. Glozelle much prefers generals turned writers. Even when they aren't writing about war, as with Pilinian and his _Historie Geographica_ , they have a plainer, more practical style. He closes the book gently, resigned to several long evenings puzzling his way through it. Miraz does not make casual suggestions; he _will_ ask about it later.  
  
The servant delivering the wine only just manages to beat Scythley there. He is still arranging cups on the table when the lord strolls in through the open door without announcement. Miraz doesn't appear surprised by this, but goes to greet him with an embrace and the kiss of peace. "Please, sit, take wine with me," Miraz urges, while the serving boy makes a discreet escape.  
  
Scythley settles himself at the table, whereupon Miraz suddenly seems to remember Glozelle's presence. "General, forgive me. You had a message for me?"  
  
"Nothing that will not wait, my lord," he replies, as he is expected to. Whatever business he has should not be aired before a guest, particularly one who opposes Miraz as often as Scythley. Truthfully, Glozelle does not relish the notion of discussing the Northern border with Miraz when his temper is already chancy.  
  
"Attend me this evening," Miraz suggests, taking a chair opposite Scythley.  
  
"Yes, my lord," Glozelle murmurs, though neither man now is paying him the slightest attention. He makes his bows to the two lords, taking his leave with as much grace as he can muster. As he closes the door, he hears Miraz saying, "It is well past time, Lord Scythley, that I thought of taking a bride." Whatever Scythley says in return is lost behind the thick panels, but it hardly matters to Glozelle except as a curiosity. Though both lords share a passion for seeing Telmar change with the times, as Miraz puts it, they are as often at loggerheads over issues of isolation and trade.  
  
The intricacies of noble marriage arrangements being well beyond him, Glozelle puts it out of his mind. Instead he considers the message from the north which had prompted him to seek out Miraz in the first place. The brutal giants of the northlands have been restless of late, and their forays into human lands both bolder and bloodier. Most recently they have carried off and entire flock of sheep, and the shepherds with it.  
  
Giants are brutal but fundamentally cowards, nothing more than beasts in grotesque parodies of human form. A few decisive battles send them scurrying back to their rocky wastes, until the memory fades from their tiny brains and they require another reminder. But Lord Armas cannot bring them to battle so long as they raid in secrecy; he must have enough eyes to watch the border. Glozelle will send such forces as he can without the Lord Protector's authorization. It won't be much, but even a few men may turn the tide of battle, and he is confident they will be put to good use. Lord Armas is a capable commander and the Passarids have ever been the shield of the north.  
  
A few squadrons for now, and if Miraz is in a better humor this evening -- if his negotiations with Scythley go well -- perhaps Glozelle will be able to lead a larger force north under royal authority. That should buy another decade or so of peace in the north, and leave the army free to concentrate on the greater threat south, as well as what Glozelle considers its true purpose: imposing peace on feuding nobles.  
  
Cheered by this thought and the pleasure of having a clear plan in mind, Glozelle goes in search of a scribe to take down his orders. Once they are written and dispatched, he should still have a spare hour or two before his interview with Miraz to devote to the book tucked under his arm.

 

* * *

 _Youngleaf, 903: Second Year of the Reign of Queen Jadis  
_  
Paukhep of the Grey clan Tauvil, junior constable of Her Majesty's lawkeepers, paused on the road to knock the thick rim of mud from her boots for the fifth time since the squad had set out from the castle. It wasn't exactly spring, and not quite cold enough for winter, which meant the ground was a slushy mess and the roads muddy ones. To make matters worse, today was precisely the sort of grey, damp day that made finishing reports attractive if only because it could be done indoors.  
  
But staying inside wasn't an option today. Word had come from the Groscard stead that another home had been vandalized. It was the sixth case in the past fortnight, and though Paukhep's squad had only handled two of the others, everyone was sick with anger at the unknown culprits. There was too much ill-will toward the Colorless clans for anyone to stand out as a suspect, and the lawkeepers grew steadily more frustrated with each attack.  
  
By the time Paukhep caught up to the others, Nikothoe had the distraught family outside their small croft, calming them. She waved Paukhep and Ostgerg through the door without taking her eyes from the weeping mother. Ostgerg ducked inside at once, but Paukhep paused to listen for a moment.  
  
“…tried so hard,” the woman sobbed. “We work the strips no one wants, we haven’t pushed forward. All we wanted was a little space for the children.”  
  
Same story, different faces. The clans of the interior and the members of the old court despised them beyond all reason. The Queen tried, but such attitudes were difficult to change. Paukhep sighed quietly, ducking inside to join her partner. Just inside, she paused, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dimness, and promptly wished they hadn’t.  
  
The place was a shambles. Every stick of furniture had been overturned and shattered, every bowl, jar, and bottle knocked from the shelves, every bit of fabric shredded. The tumble of ruined goods added up to more mess than such a meager set of possessions had any right to make. The worst thing was the small huddle of charred clan charms still smoking dully in a corner.  
  
"Lucky those didn't catch the whole house," Ostgerg said, seeing where Paukhep was looking.  
  
"Yeah," she echoed dully. "Lucky." She plucked a shard of pottery from the wreckage at her feet, turning it over in her fingers. Bright painted patterns covered one side; the family was from the northlands where they decorated almost everything against the long dark. This was finer work than most, and they didn't seem to have money; someone in the family had talent.  
  
"It doesn't really matter, does it?" Paukhep said, letting the shard fall back to the floor. "No one's going to admit seeing anything. So they have a houseful of ruins and we can't even bring the culprits to justice for them. A fine welcome to Narnia this is."  
  
"Maybe not," Ostgerg said. "Look at this." Drawn by the interest in his voice -- usually nothing but a new book excited him -- Paukhep drifted over to look at his discovery. There, in the flour spilling from a smashed jar, was one clear, beautiful footprint. She grinned and crouched to examine it.  
  
"Woodsman," Ostgerg said. "The shape's distinctive."  
  
Paukhep nodded. "Large and heavy," she added, measuring the print with her hand, careful not to disturb the powder. Sitting back on her heels, she looked up at her partner. "Not much to go on; there must be dozens nearby. And none of them like us."  
  
"It’s more than we've had in the last two." Ostgerg gazed around the wreckage, his face grim. "Nothing else here."  
  
"No." Paukhep stood. "Let's see if Nikothoe's calmed the family down any."  
  
But when they emerged from the house, Commander Greck pulled them aside before they even saw Nikothoe. "Report," he ordered, looking grimmer than usual.  
  
"One footprint," Ostgerg said. "Tall, heavy woodsman."  
  
"All of them, in other words." Greck sounded angry, but then he always did. The rash of incidents directed at the Colorless clans wasn't helping anyone's mood.  
  
"There's nothing else," Paukhep said. "The family can go in." She hesitated. It wasn't strictly their job, but... "Sir, the clan charms--"  
  
"You two may escort the stead's wise-woman here," Greck said. "The queen would prefer to keep this from outright warfare, and all we need now is toughs attacking a wise-woman."  
  
"Yes, sir. Thank you," she added, before Ostgerg could nudge her. He'd decided her manners needed work, and her side was sort for him hints.  
  
Normally, a wise-woman's dwelling would be at the center of the stead, but in these mixed settlements, anyone who might become a focus for the prevailing air of suspicion had prudently removed to the fringes or even the isolation of the forest edge. The walk, therefore, was a fair bit longer than it might have been, leaving plenty of time to brood.  
  
Ostgerg had little patience with brooding in general. "Stop that. They'll be fine."  
  
"There was nothing left in there," Paukhep growled. "Not even a scrap of food. How is it going to be fine when they're starving?"  
  
"They won't starve; stop exaggerating. The queen will see to it they're fed out of the palace until they're back on their feet. And their neighbors will help replace what was lost."  
  
"The neighbors hardly have anything to spare, either," she pointed out. "And how long before they're attacked too? It's not fair." To Paukhep, _not fair_ was the worst kind of complaint. The thousand nagging inequities of life had driven her to turn lawkeeper; the more brutal grievances of life in the in the Colorless clans had driven her to the Queen in the North, and eventually brought her here, in that queen's service.  
  
Ostgerg fancied himself a philosopher, and often argued fairness with her, driving her to distraction. But today he only grunted and forbore to comment further. Whether he agreed or just sensed her mood, she was grateful. Just now, hearing 'fairness depends on our perception' or even worse, 'life is meant to be unfair' would have snapped her fraying temper. And she tried not to lose her temper on duty, she really did. It got in the way of the job.  
  
"She lives here," she said instead, turning off the path for a little cote set among the brush at the forest's edge. Ostgerg knew that as well as she did, of course, and if he hadn't the sigil-post set by the door would have told him, but apparently his unaccustomed taciturnity extended to not pointing out inanity. Paukhep led the way to the door, trying to shake off her black mood. It didn't work very well, but she was able to muster a polite smile when the wise-woman opened the door.  
  
She was a little woman, stooped and almost curled in on herself, her only memorable feature a prominent hooked nose like a beak. But her eyes were lively and mirthful as she peered up at them. "And what brings a pair of lawkeepers to the door of an honest woman?" she asked.  
  
Paukhep found a less stilted smile for her at the teasing. "We're your escort, Mother Aksiniya," she said. "The Vaunos family's clan charms were destroyed--"  
  
"More troubles," the wise-woman said, shaking her head. "More anger. The same again? Everything smashed up?"  
  
"I fear so," Ostgerg said, and Aksiniya shook her head again, sadly.  
  
"Will you be able to stop them?" The two lawkeepers exchanged dubious glances. Aksiniya sighed. "I see. Wait a moment whilst I get my things, and then we'll see what we can do for the Vaunos family."  
  
The walk back seemed even longer, constantly alert for any trouble. The stead was silent, eerily so for an early afternoon, but Paukhep felt the prickle of watching eyes on her skin. It was almost an anticlimax to bring Aksiniya safely to the Vaunos door, where Commander Greck waited with Nikothoe and her partner, Felik. The wise-woman scarcely gave them a nod before ducking into the croft, leaving the lawkeepers cooling their heels outside.  
  
"Anything useful from the neighbors?" Ostgerg asked, not sounding especially hopeful.  
  
"As usual," Felik replied. "I think--"  
  
"What's got into Ruzai?" Paukhep interrupted, staring past Nikothoe's shoulder at the youngster racing toward them. Her squad-mates turned to look, and Greck reached out to steady the boy when he skidded to a halt in front of them.  
  
"Easy, there. What's the rush?"  
  
Bent double and gasping, it was a moment before Ruzai could speak. "Need -- Niko," he gasped out. "At Pinestead."  
  
"Another vandalism?" Nikothoe asked wearily, but Ruzai shook his head.  
  
"No'm." He sucked in a great breath and managed to straighten a little, looking up at her gravely. "It's your son."  
  


* * *

  
  
_Woodhush, 2296: Fourth year of the regency of Lord Protector Miraz_  
  
"Should I congratulate the happy bridegroom?"  
  
"You heard," Miraz says. Glozelle tips his head just slightly. "It went well, but there is much to be done before any contract can be made. I am not yet certain the lady and I will suit, to begin."  
  
"Lady Prunaprismia is counted very beautiful, I believe," Glozelle says.  
  
"She is. But there is more to choosing a wife than beauty."  
  
What other considerations there might be, Glozelle does not know. At least, none that could be satisfied by meeting the lady herself. Nobles marry for wealth, for alliance, or for beauty, when they cannot get all three at once. Certainly Caspian had chosen his queen for her looks. He says none of this to Miraz, of course. Instead, he asks if he may make his report.  
  
"Of course, General, of course. What news?"  
  
"The northern giants are restive, my lord." He lays out the situation, emphasizing the boldness of the attacks and their scale -- not a head or three of livestock, but entire herds.  
  
Miraz listens gravely, nodding now and again but saying nothing. When Glozelle winds down, he says, "You have already dispatched forces?"  
  
"Two squadrons," Glozelle replies, "which is all I can spare without a muster." He waits, expecting this to be mere formality, for the order to call up the levies owed from the crown estates.  
  
But Miraz shakes his head. "No," he says. "Armas will have to manage with his own levies; we cannot spare the muster now."  
  
"But Lord Miraz," Glozelle objects. It is neither planting nor harvest; there is no reason the royal levies could not be called. "The chaos in the north--"  
  
"General," the lord breaks in, "I understand your frustration. I, too, wish it were possible. But there are other factors to consider."  
  
Glozelle frowns. New Telmar is an isolated and protected land, with few things to threaten it. The west is bordered by deep forests, nothing like the trammeled and managed stands in the heartland that provide firewood and game. The only ones who will venture even a little ways under its branches are the families who live beside it, like the Alcedins at Beaversdam, in whom familiarity has bred complacency if not exactly contempt. The western families tend to be loners perforce, avoided lest the madness that drives them into the woods rub off.  
  
Other patches of that wildness lie in the east: not as thick, not as terrifying to sensible men, but sufficient to discourage casual entry. Only the river road that leads to their lone port is counted safe passage. But there is nothing in the east but the sea, and no one want to venture to the sea. They have the port for trade and communication, which is sufficient.  
  
North and south are the problems. North, the giants and the occasionally other, stranger creatures that attach in the night. South, Archenland. Their nearest neighbor sits lurking on their border, eyeing them up for a tasty snack. Thinly-disguised 'bandits' harass the southern villages every autumn, and the boundary markers mysteriously shift themselves a pace or two between surveys, the Archen villages spilling a little further down the mountainsides every year. Every few generations there is either a war or a royal marriage as Archenland tries to get its hooks into the country.  
  
This, though, ought to have been one of the quieter generations. Nobles intermarried too, and many a daughter -- or even an inconvenient younger son -- had been sent to a wedding across the border, so the queen had Archen blood by way of her grandmother and had been friendly towards them before her death, a position her brother Erimon continues. If King Nain has granddaughters before Caspian is much older, there might yet be a royal match. But Miraz seems to be suggesting...  
  
"Consider, General," Miraz says when his confusion stretches the silence to far. "Archenland has never been so close to their desires. If Lord Erimon gains control of Caspian, he will invite them in. And it would not be long before he found himself replaced by a regent of _their_ choosing. As for my nephew... Caspian might be allowed to live, but never to rule. And in his sons' generation they would cease any pretense at all, and we would Archenland whether we wished it or no.  
  
"They will do anything to ensure this chance does not slip away, General. I must have sufficient forces _here_ to protect the border and the prince."  
  
"I would never weaken the defense of this castle," Glozelle says, vaguely offended that Miraz should think so.  
  
"It is not merely the castle, General." Miraz glances at the door, which is properly shut, and lowers his voice anyway, leaning in. "In the strictest confidence..." He waits for Glozelle to nod. "I fear the wrangling in the Council will spill into violence. If the question of guardianship is not resolved soon, it may be war."  
  
Glozelle shivers involuntarily. The perennial feuds between nobles are bad enough; he can only imagine the havoc outright civil war would wreak on the land. "I have not heard of levies raised," he whispers, instinctively matching Miraz's tone, "but I will have a closer watch kept."  
  
"Good." Miraz straightens. "You understand why I cannot raise the royal levy for the north?"  
  
Reluctantly, he nods. "I do, my lord."  
  
Miraz claps him on the shoulder, adding a brisk squeeze by way of comfort. "Armas will hold for us," he says. "It is ill to campaign in winter anyway. By spring this should all be well-resolved and we may send aid north."


End file.
